


Complementary

by RootsOfOurRemiges



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Experienced Aziraphale (Good Omens), Frottage, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, What Crowley Lacks In Experience He Makes Up In Attentiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28868058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RootsOfOurRemiges/pseuds/RootsOfOurRemiges
Summary: The beauty that lies in simplicity. In familiarity.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 75





	Complementary

Sometimes, it’s as simple as this. These times when what Aziraphale wants most of all is just to feel the weight and the heat of Crowley’s cock in his hand, and Crowley wants the same of him in turn.

“Here, my love, just like this,” as Aziraphale guides Crowley onto his side, facing one another and settling their hips into alignment. A bottle, miraculously full despite neither of them nipping out to do the shopping this morning for all Aziraphale’s prior fussing about running out. 

(When Crowley whines and grumbles that it’s chilly, Aziraphale distracts him with a sweep of his tongue across Crowley’s lower lip, sucking indulgently and letting slip that certain low moan that’s long since ruined all public dining for the pair of them. His hand is warm well before Crowley has anything resembling the presence of mind to complain again.)

Both cocks are generously coated with lube by the time their joined hands encircle them together, pumping each other in a steadily building rhythm of slick sounds.

The way Aziraphale touches Crowley like this, it’s as though he’s touching an extension of himself. Each stroke of his fist applies exactly the finesse that Crowley needs, the perfect amount of delicious pressure. Aziraphale clearly has a keen sense for this, fine-tuned to every note of Crowley’s feedback, twisting his wrist _just_ so when he recognizes the distinctive pulse of Crowley leaking against his palm.

“So _responsive_ ,” he marvels aloud at how Crowley’s whole body curls into the touch, and lightly squeezes just under the head with his thumb to feel Crowley twitch in his grasp. “Does this feel good, darling?” Crowley manages an affirmative groan, and Aziraphale, through his own pleasure, _beams_. “Splendid. I’d _— ah —_ quite hoped it might.”

He could play at modesty if he liked, but he’d had a bit more than a modest head start on Crowley where sex was concerned. The breadth of his experience spanned millennia and the beds of far more men than the demon had ever dared to pursue. He’d ample opportunity to study the language of his lovers’ bodies and how to read them, just as well if not better than he could read his own.

It must have been only natural then that he’d come away with something of an _intuition_ for cock and the pleasures thereof, a skill he’s been putting to maddeningly good use of late, lavishing Crowley with attention.

“Show-off,” Crowley squeaks out with a pointed tightening of his fist, not about to forget his focus on working Aziraphale over _just_ as thoroughly. He mirrors Aziraphale’s pace and grits his teeth as the slippery strokes of both their hands together grow even louder in his ears, messy and obscene and, judging by his pleased gasp, something Aziraphale absolutely _thrives_ on. “Hah, think I might’ve learned something new just now — you like that, angel?” He draws his palm over the blunt head of Aziraphale’s cock to demonstrate, spreading precome and lube to feel it between his fingers. “You like it noisy?”

Aziraphale’s answer is an eager whimper that meets Crowley’s mouth in a wet, wanton kiss, and that’s all the confirmation Crowley needs to slather his hand in even more lube and redouble his efforts. _This_ is where he’s able to shine, where his laser-focus attentiveness to Aziraphale and him alone easily makes up any gaps in experience.

Not to be outdone, Aziraphale draws his free arm around Crowley’s shoulders — best he can manage on their sides like this — hitches a leg up to rest one solid, heavy thigh atop Crowley’s narrow one, crowding impossibly closer to him as his deft miraculous touch pulls and twists the both of them ever closer still.

“Kiss me again, quickly dearest.” He’s so nearly undone, his voice is thick with it. Damn near drunk on it. “ _Please,_ I'm—”

Crowley obliges in a rush. If Aziraphale’s been driven to begging then he’s already well overdue. When he closes the distance this time, he can’t stop his hips reflexively snapping forward, rolling into Aziraphale’s hand hard enough to pin both their respective wrists in place between them. The new jolt of pressure makes Aziraphale’s hips jerk as well, and it’s that tight slide of their cocks past one another that brings the winding tension to its shatter point.

They’re not sure which one of them tips over that point first — the waves of effervescent champagne tingles sparking their way through every extremity make it hard enough to tell whose skin is whose, and their bodies are pressed so flush together that every tremor echoes between them like the same reflection multiplied to infinity in a pair of mirrors. Between their bellies, between their fingers, there’s the rush of wet heat that makes Aziraphale clutch the back of Crowley’s neck and groan into their kiss, sensing the thrumming vibration of Crowley’s keening where it elongates into a hiss that rattles his entire chest.

Aziraphale gentles and slows his strokes as the aftershocks taper, and when he pulls back he’s wearing the rosiest of smiles, his grey eyes large and bright and so perfectly crinkled at the corners. His well-kissed lips part, poised to speak, but Crowley’s determined to beat him to it. 

“Love you, angel.” And Crowley doesn’t so much _say_ it as he _breathes_ it, huffing a single laugh of joyous exhaustion. He shakes the pins and needles out of his other arm to loop around Aziraphale’s waist, run appreciative knuckles and fingertips along his thigh.

“Oh, you serpent, _I_ was going to say — ah, well I suppose the reciprocity rather suits, doesn’t it?” He lays the flat of his palm against Crowley’s chest, finding that sweet affirmation of _life_ in his heart, a beat for Aziraphale’s every rest and a rest for his every beat. “I love you.”


End file.
